


A Walk In the Park

by Avery11



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mother's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 02:08:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6781051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon and Illya are off to Aunt Amy's penthouse to celebrate Mother's Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Walk In the Park

 

“Best roses in Manhattan,” Napoleon declared as he and Illya exited _Floral Designs by Olivier_ on Central Park West. Each man carried an elegant bouquet of flowers, wrapped in pink cellophane and tied with a silk ribbon. “Olivier always carries the best.”

“They are certainly the most expensive,” Illya replied, gazing mournfully at his empty wallet. “Ah well, nothing is too good for Aunt Amy, I suppose.”

“That's the spirit. I'll make a capitalist out of you yet.”

“You can try.” Illya stuffed his billfold into his back pocket. “Perhaps we should hail a cab. It is rather warm today, and we don't want the flowers to wilt.”

The senior agent glanced up at the bright blue sky, enjoying the feeling of the warm sun on his skin. It was a welcome change from their recent near-entombment in the ice caves of northern Finland. “On second thought, let's walk. Amy's penthouse is only a couple of blocks away. We can cut through Central Park.”

Illya studied his partner, noting the lines of tension around the jawline, fatigue rimming bloodshot eyes. He nodded. “The fresh air will do us both good.”

They took the 72nd Street walkway into the Park, and listened as the sounds of traffic faded. The dogwoods were in bloom, their petals drifting down like flakes of snow onto the fresh green grass. Birds flitted among the treetops, captivating passers-by with the joy of their song. Napoleon drank in the beauty like a starving man.

“It's good to be home,” he said.

They followed the lakeshore path past bumpy-barked hackleberry trees, tupelos and a small stand of Eastern hemlocks. A few rowboats dotted the water, couples and families enjoying the warm Spring sunshine. The sounds of laughter drifted toward them on the breeze.

“Mom used to take us kids rowing on the Lake,” Napoleon recalled as they watched a mother and her two giggling children row by. “We'd go every Sunday after church if the weather was nice. On the way home, we'd stop for ice cream at Schrafft's.” He smiled at the memory. 

"It sounds positively halcyon."

“Go ahead and snicker, partner mine, but I loved being on the water. It felt so peaceful out there, away from the city noises. I could pretend I was on all sorts of grand adventures – sailing off to French Polynesia in search of pirate treasure, or floating up the Nile, fighting off man-eating crocodiles."

"Captain Solo, the swashbuckling pirate. I like it."

"Do you? Remind me to show you my broadsword later tonight."

Illya's smile held a hint of the predatory. "You show me yours, and I will show you mine."

They passed the Cherry Hill Fountain, the surrounding trees redolent with fragrant pink blossoms. “It was good of Aunt Amy to include me in her Mother's Day celebration,” Illya said as they dodged around a group of college students playing Frisbee on the wide green lawn. “Are your sisters coming, too?”

“Hippolyta can't make it – she's got that conference in Brussels – but Artemesia and the kids will be there. Aunt Amy was over the moon with excitement when she found out they were coming.”

“She does love a good party. I still remember the one she threw at Halloween last year. I rarely have seen so many people crammed into one apartment - outside of Moscow.”

“Amy needs family around her the way other people need air. Having people around comforts her."

Illya stopped. "You're going to have to explain that."

A trio of children raced past, their eyes on the ice cream truck parked ahead. 

"It was a long time ago, during the War. Amy was doing fund raisers for the Navy, pulling out all the stops to raise money for the war effort. It was at one of those fund raisers that she met a handsome Brit named Joe Gallagher. Joe was a doctor, and a spokesperson for the International Red Cross. To hear Amy tell it, their eyes met across a crowded ballroom, and it was love at first sight."

"Strange, that she never mentions him," Illya said quietly.

"They only had a few weeks together before Joe was summoned back to England. The Blitz was on, and casualties were high. Doctors were desperately needed to care for the injured. Joe was assigned to a hospital in Central London - St. Thomas's, you know, the one near Westminster?"

Illya nodded.

"The following May, the hospital was bombed, and Joe was in the north annex when it collapsed. He died instantly. Then, while Amy was in England for the funeral, her sister died in a traffic accident outside their apartment in New York.”

"Her sister - your mother?"

A nod. 

"How old were you?"

"Eight.”

“So young.” Illya's hand reached over to clasp Napoleon's. "Tell me about her. What do you remember?"

Napoleon watched an Irish setter chase a frisbee across the lawn.  “Little things, mostly. Her voice. The smell of her shampoo. How soft her hands were. And the way she laughed – like music, like bells."

"She sounds charming."

"I wish you could have met her. I think the two of you would have hit it off." A sudden smile lit Napoleon's face. “Did I mention her bedtime stories? Mom was a fabulous storyteller. At night, she'd read to us, complete with all the voices – Greek myths mostly, Theseus slaying the Minotaur and such. You should have heard her doing the voice of the Minotaur.” He laughed. “Other times it would be a chapter from _Sherlock Holmes_ or _The Wind In the Willows_. My favorite was _The Lone Ranger_ series of books _._ I'd dream of riding my very own white stallion, galloping across the western plains with faithful Tonto by my side, crying out a hearty 'Hi-yo, Silver, away!'”

“After saving the innocent townspeople from the bad guys, I presume?”

“Yeah.” Napoleon chuckled to himself. “I guess I'm still doing that, aren't I?”

“'The seed grows the tree,' as we say in Russia.”

“'The seed grows the tree.'” Napoleon turned the phrase over on his tongue. “I like that.”

 

They crossed the graceful stone arch of the Bow Bridge, pausing to admire the play of sunlight on the water. “Is there a special day for mothers in the Soviet Union?” Napoleon asked.

“The closest comparison would be International Women's Day. It is a time to show respect and honor to all women. Mothers, yes, but also grandmothers, wives, daughters, friends. We bring gifts of flowers – roses or yellow mimosas are most popular – and there is a festive meal with champagne. Afterward, the men do the dishes and other chores so that their wives may enjoy rest from their labors.” Illya tossed a blossom into the water, and watched it float away. “ _Mamotchka_ loved roses. _”_

“ _Mamotchka?_ Your mother?” Napoleon leaned forward, arms resting on the stone railing. “You don't talk about her much. What was she like?”

“Kind, and very beautiful. She had a sweet smile that could light up a room. She was like _Snegurotchka_ , our Snow Maiden, a magical creature, pale and graceful as an angel. I thought I had the prettiest mother in the whole world _._ ”

“She was a dancer, wasn't she? A ballerina?”

“ _Prima ballerina,”_ Illya corrected with a touch of pride. “She started out in the _corps de ballet_ , and worked her way up.”

“Impressive.”

“I used to sit in the wings, watching her perform night after night. _Coppelia, Giselle, Odette –_ she danced them all. The audience would be in a frenzy when the curtain came down – applauding, stomping their feet, crying _'ypa, ypa,'_ and _'ochen' khorosho.'”_

“She must have been an amazing dancer.”

“She was.” Illya stared down into the dark water. “Afterward, after everyone had gone home, I would help her take off her _pointe_ shoes. Her feet would be so swollen. Red, covered in blisters. Sometimes they bled. Her toes were bruised, the nails black from the constant compressions.”

Napoleon was aghast.

“She could not afford proper _pointe_ shoes, you see. Ballerinas, even _primas_ , were not paid very much in those days. Every night I massaged her feet, washed the glue off, bathed them in ice to dull the pain. Sometimes it was after midnight before she was able to stand. The buses did not run at that hour, so we had to walk the two miles back home to our apartment.”

“It must have been hard on you, seeing her in such pain.”

“It was hard to watch her suffer,” Illya acknowledged. “Sometimes, I wished we could move out of the city, board a train and go someplace warm – a little _dacha_ by the Black Sea, where we could run barefoot and grow vegetables – but I knew Mama would never give up her dancing. She loved it too much. She loved it the way you love danger - it was a part of her, an essential part of who she was. She accepted the the cost without complaint, and I loved her too much to make her change." He sighed. "Sometimes love is the only choice.”

_'Love is the only choice.'_

Such a simple statement, Napoleon thought to himself as they completed their traverse of the Park. And yet, it explained so much about the man who was his partner. The man who, from among all the available candidates, had chosen Napoleon Solo to love.

_The seed grows the tree._

So lost in thought was he, that he never noticed when they reached the entrance to Aunt Amy's apartment building.

“We should probably go in,” Illya said. “They will be waiting for us.”

They crossed the marbled lobby to the elevator, waving a greeting to Suleman, the Senegalese concierge.

“You be sure and wish a Happy Mother's Day to that Aunt of yours, Mr. Solo!” Suleman called out.

“I will.” The doors closed, and the elevator began its ascent to the penthouse.

“Napoleon?”

He raised his eyes, and saw Illya watching him. “The seed grows the tree,” he said.

“Ah.” Illya smiled. “So now you know me better.”

“No," he corrected. "Now I know why you love me.” 

The door opened onto Amy's penthouse. Music blared from a phonograph at the far end of the apartment, mingling with the distant sounds of conversation. Artemesia's tinkling laugh, so like their mother's, bubbled out from the general direction of the kitchen, accompanied by the delighted squeals of a pair of unruly children.

"Sounds like the party's already in high gear," Napoleon said.

"Isn't it always?"

Aunt Amy barreled down the long hallway at something close to light speed. She wrapped her arms around the two men, and enveloping them in a sweet cloud of _Bal a Versailles._ Her eyes were suspiciously bright. “My boys are here!” she exclaimed. “And you've brought roses!”

Napoleon took Illya's hand, and followed his beloved Aunt Amy toward the kitchen, where his family waited.

*/*/*/

*/*/*/

 


End file.
